


Snufkins You Have Loved

by Sp00py



Series: Bendy's Murderous Adventure Across Moominvalley [38]
Category: Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson
Genre: F/M, Happyverse but no warnings, M/M, Other, POV Second Person, Vanilla, Vignette
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:27:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24224293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sp00py/pseuds/Sp00py
Summary: Snufkins are a wonder, and you're pleased to have known so many of them. A collection of encounters between a Joxter and the Snufkins he has loved.
Relationships: Mama Foxter/Various Snufkins
Series: Bendy's Murderous Adventure Across Moominvalley [38]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1039163
Kudos: 4
Collections: Happyverse





	1. The First

**Author's Note:**

> Eventually I'll probably get to named Snufkins, but for now here are some randos.

You’ve lived a life full of wandering, misdeeds, and hedonistic delights that would make a Hemulen blush. And you’ve still many years ahead (you started a life of crime quite young, as is your species’ wont). Such is the life of a Joxter, and the taste of stolen fruit is so much more delicious than something simply gifted.

Somewhere, in the back of your mind, you know that you’ll one day find a nest (not too big, you think) of like-minded Joxters and settle down, but that is far into your future. For now, you yearn to wander slowly and leisurely through the seasons.

This is how you meet your first Snufkin. Oh, you’ve heard of them. Your mother always spoke so fondly and longingly of them, and you’re often compared to them as you pass through shops with sticky fingers or a Hemulen grabs you by your scruff like a kitten and shakes you of shiny trinkets you’d planned to leave strung up high in trees for no other reason than the joy of it. Yes, you’ve heard of Snufkins, and been endlessly intrigued by them. They’re alike and unlike Joxters. More energetic, you’ve heard. Cleaner, certainly. Solitary. But likewise possessed of the need for mischief. For chaos.

Which is how you wind up in jail with one.

The Hemulen has to practically drag you into your cell, because you certainly aren’t going to expend any effort in going there yourself. He deposits you on the floor in a muddle of coat and scarf, then tosses your hat in after you, before sealing the door and your freedom away.

You’re only stirred from contentedly laying there by the slight fragrance of something…. Delicious. Like dirt and flowers, but warmer as though sunlight had been cooking them, though it’s the dead of night (which is probably why the Hemulen was particularly cross). You’re not stirred to action, yet, instead simply relishing the scent. There is no rush.

Next, you notice a slight scraping noise, the rustle of cloth, breathing. Company.

You rouse yourself and tidy your whiskers, then lift your head to search with your cat-bright eyes in the darkness of the jail cell. She’s not hard to miss, the only thing in there that’s not a cot or a pail. Her knife flashes in the moonlight, carving into a stick, and you suddenly know what it means to be in love.

“Hullo,” you say, and it does nothing to convey the sudden ache. She’s lovely. You’re nothing of a poet, much less an artist, but her cheeks are bright like flower buds, and she smiles easily and readily, as unbothered about life as you are. A kindred soul. Her hat hangs around her neck, and her hair is a bird’s nest of curls. You don’t know what you want to do with her, but you do want to do something.

The Snufkin, and this can be nothing else but a Snufkin, so Joxterish but fresh, scoots herself a bit to the side, inviting you over. You scramble to your feet and join her immediately. You don’t need to be asked twice. You want to sink into her curls.

She tilts the thing she’s carving toward you unprompted. It’s a little face like a green man, each leaf carefully chiseled out, the eyes like tiny, dark pits. Such talented little paws, she has. You delight in watching them work, and the way her lips purse to blow away chips of wood, and the way her eyes droop with pleasant contemplation.

You take out your own knife and cut to pieces an apple the Hemulen hadn’t found while divesting you of the many apples you’d helped yourself to. Your knifework isn’t nearly as fancy as hers, but you two share the sweet fruits of your thievery. She’s warm beside you.  
  


You wake up to sunlight streaming into the cell, a hole in the floor, and the conspicuous absence of the Snufkin. All that’s left is her scent, fading like old paper, and a very irate Hemulen shaking the bars and demanding to know where she went.

You shrug, roll over, and go back to sleep. You’re floating in aromatic curls the color of which you don’t actually know.


	2. Winter

The memory of her keeps you company for many nights, and the spring turns to summer turns to fall. You meet a Mymble who shows you just what to do with all the longings and fondness pent up inside. It is enlightening and pleasant, and it readies you for your next encounter with a Snufkin, though you don’t think that far ahead until he’s waking you up on the cusp of winter.

You aren’t one to wake quickly no matter what, and you’ve gotten a wonderfully warm, mouldering pile of leaves gathered all around you in a cave you found. You have no need to wake up quickly, even when there’s a rush of icy air and the frantic, fast breathing of another person.

A Snufkin. This one sends a thrill through you before you’ve even opened your eyes. His heart is racing. His breath rasps. He smells faintly of fear. You feel a surge of energy that has no right existing ever in your body, but especially when you’re about to hibernate.

Your eyes snap open. He’s silhouetted by the grey light of an overcast sky as he pulls the bark back in front of the cave entrance. Something shuffles around outside but then moves on. You don’t think he realizes you’re here. That he’s not alone.

You want to pounce. You want to feel him squirm. You shift to your hands and knees.

He whips around, pale eyes glinting with fear. It excites you, but that’s followed by a wave of worry. That dampens your exhilaration. You want him in your arms, but not to feel him squirm.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” you coo, hands held out to show you mean no harm.

He’s curled up at the entrance, about ready to flee. His gaze darts all over you.  He looks young and new to the world. You wait. You don’t ask any questions. You don’t need to know any answers. Snufkin is scared, and you are here.

Once he decides that you’re not a threat, he’s far more receptive to getting closer. It’s cold, and you’re warm. When you touch his arm, you feel him shiver.

“Aw, poor dear,” you murmur as he lets you hold him.You pet him, from his sweet little mouse ears to his nervously curling and uncurling tail. Eventually, slowly, Snufkin relaxes against you. The tremors decrease, then cease. He’s amazing. You’re in awe of the fact that he lets you touch him, lets you breathe in his frost-coated flavors.

Snufkin yawns. Winter is so close. The two of you lay back in the leaves, and you invite him to hibernate with you. He consents with quiet, murmured agreement.  _ Just for a short time. _

You make love to him, soothe away any worries with your lips and your fingers. He tastes of residual fear. It’s delicious, and you don’t dwell on that, simply savor it as fear gives way to arousal. Snufkin opens up and you slip inside gently, slowly, like the Mymble taught you.

He shudders, and his paws flutter around your whiskers as though they don’t know what to do. But that is exactly enough for you, and you churr in pleasure against his ear. You don’t need anything more in life than this Snufkin in this moment. 

You two sleep, you curled protectively around the Snufkin, who wriggles an awful lot until you nip his ear and he settles.

It’s a blissful winter, cozier than other winters you’ve spent alone or in the company of friends. Friends are very nice, of course, but they wouldn’t be your friends generally if you roll over, more asleep than awake, and rut lazily against them until you find your way inside. And they  _ certainly _ wouldn’t simply sigh gently and spread their legs to allow you easier access. Snufkins delight you at every turn.

He stays all winter, despite saying that he wouldn’t. You appreciate the company, though, by the spring thaw, you’re both a little crusty (this bothers Snufkin more than you). He wakes up before you, full of excitement for a new season.

A few days later, while you’re still drowsy with hibernation, Snufkin pets your head and that feels very nice, and then he’s gone.


	3. Wuffkin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is technically the first mention of a previously-established Snufkins, just... wildly out of order and an exceptionally minor named Snufkin.

You meet another Mymble, and she is so soft and round and gives you food while you lounge on her hearth like a mangy cat. Her children are fascinated by you, little Mymbles and Woodies tugging at the scarf she’s still in the middle of knitting, but which you couldn’t help but wrap yourself in already.

“I’m afraid I don’t know how to finish these things,” she apologizes one day while you dance one of her daughters around in front of the warm, autumnal fire. She squeals in joy every time you pick her up and spin her around.

“Keep going until you run out of yarn?”

She laughs, and it’s lovely, and you eventually wind up with a scarf that’s longer than you are tall, at least twice over. The Mymble had a lot of yarn.

As you wander the fields and forests outside of her town, having said warm goodbyes to a sobbing little Mymble and her beatific mother, you come across an even better gift than the scarf, which is already picking up leaves, and sticks, and playful little Creeps.

His scent is light, hiding mischievously under the detritus of the forest floor, and the idea of stalking a fall Snufkin settles warm in your belly. It’s late, the sky already dark, but that only makes it more exciting. You gather up your scarf, Creeps and all, and tuck it into a cozy little hollow formed by ancient tree roots. Then, whiskers twitching, blood singing, and eyes glinting in moonlight and fading sun, you slink away through the forest.

He’s whistling a tune, working through it, rewriting and reviewing. Snufkins, you have learned, are endlessly creative little creatures. Instead of simply enjoying all the world can give them, they want to give back, in song, in dance, in stories and art. It’s a beautifully selfless trait.

You spot his green hat over a bush, and pause, listening to his whistles. They’re shy and unsure, building. Still growing.

When you poke your head through the bush, knocking your own hat askew, the Snufkin leaps about a mile high with a shriek.

He lands in a pile of knitwear and limbs, before shoving himself upright. “Hello!”

“Hello,” you say, climbing entirely out of the bush. As he struggles against his own clothing, you idly clean your whiskers. He’s got soft brown hair, big hazel eyes, and paws the color of ruddy clay.

“Did you come to meet me?” the Snufkin asks cheerfully. His wild scent is buried under the now-familiar, Mymble mother layers of wool. He’s so young, just barely beginning his journey, still not far from home.

“I did.”

“Did you like my song?” the little Snufkin continues.

You nod, reaching forward to fix his skewed hat and pluck leaves from his coat. “It has the beginnings of a lovely tune,” you say, slipping your paw easily into his. “Would you like me to teach you how to whistle better?”

“Yes, please, sir.” The Snufkin follows you easily back to your impromptu nest. You’ve never met a Snufkin so small as this. He only comes about to your thigh, hat and all. And so proper, like he hadn’t quite shaken off the trappings of civilization yet. It makes you smile to think how new he is to the world.

“You can call me papa, dear.”

“But you’re not much older than me. Are you a Snufkin?” he asks as you kick and yank your scarf into a more comfortable position and crawl inside. He follows after, sitting against your legs once you curl up. It’s nighttime, now, the air cold, and Snufkin warm. “You look kind of like me.”

You laugh, though it’s cut off by a yawn. There will be no whistle-teaching tonight. “I’m old enough to be your papa,” you say. “And I’m not a Snufkin, but I’ve met Snufkins.”

Snufkin’s nose wrinkles. “I’ve not met anyone like me,” he admits. “Just a bunch of Toffles and Hemulens and Woodies. And my family, which doesn’t count.”

You wrinkle your nose right back, and bump it against Snufkin’s, who giggles. Snufkins are so much rarer than others, you can easily imagine how one as little as him had never met another, yet. “Hemulens are the worst, aren’t they? No fun at all.”

Snufkin settles more firmly against you, not quite sitting and not quite laying, but fitting perfectly against you. You just want to keep him forever and teach him all the best things in the world, like how to eat pomegranates and steal trashy novels.

“They are! A farmer lives near here, and she has  _ so much _ food, but she keeps it all to herself! She even called the police on me, when I saw she had so much and definitely wasn’t going to eat it all herself.”

You shake your head and tut. “So rude.”

And that was enough for Snufkin to launch into a story of his grand theft. Three whole apples (one of which he still had), a few eggs (which did not last the journey), and a jar of jam (which he couldn’t get the lid off of). Apparently he’d come quite close to getting caught. It is all very harrowing, and you nod and hum and gasp in all the right spots.

Soon, his story dwindles into disconnected words and struggles to stay awake. Snufkins have so much  _ energy _ , you’re exhausted just listening to his story. You gladly pull a length of scarf over Snufkin, tucking him in, and coaxing him closer to blessed sleep, before snuggling down into the warmth yourself and dozing off.

The next morning, you open his jam for him and share pieces of apple covered in it. As you stroll at a leisurely, Joxterish pace to the farmer’s fields, his small, sticky paw in your own, you teach him to whistle.

With two mumriks, it’s easy to pull more apples from trees than if either were alone. You hoist Snufkin up into the lower branches, and he tosses them down into your waiting hat. It’s a wonderful bonding experience, and soon Snufkin is whistling heartily and loudly.

Shortly after  _ that _ , you’re both running from the farmer and her dogs.

Far enough away, you split the spoils, most going into Snufkin’s bag because he is still growing and you want to make sure he has enough to eat.

“That was so fun, papa!” he chirps, swinging the bag over his back. Your heart flutters at the endearment, and you wish achingly that you were his papa.

You cup his cheek in one paw, before he can flee and become just a pleasant dream. Snufkin looks up at you with wide, innocently confused eyes. You stare at him a long time, committing his face to memory, then give him a little pat and let your paw drop.

“Goodbye, dear. Be safe.”

Snufkin gives a resolute nod, and waves at you until the trees eat him up. You wave back the entire time, of course, until all that’s left is his scent, and you crave to follow it, but you’re also tired and long overdue for a nap.

You settle in between the roots of the tree again, munching on an apple that Snufkin had touched, and contemplate where next you’ll hibernate, when next you’ll see Snufkin (maybe when he’s a little older, and wouldn’t that be nice?), what next you’ll eat. An awful lot of thoughts for a Joxter to have, but all pleasant and none pressing.


End file.
